Rocco of the Dead

We’re sitting on the couch, doing nothing particularly special, catching up on the DVR when suddenly Rocco starts taking rapid deep breaths with a look of complete repulsion on his face.

Me (slightly panicked):  What’s wrong?

Rocco (sounding like he’s taking a lamaze class in slow mo’):  Heeee.  Hoooo.  Heeee.  Hoooo.

Me (no longer panicked, but very confused):  What the hell are you doing?

Rocco (still panting):  I’m.  Heeee.  Trying.  Hoooo.  To.  Heeee.  Process.  Hooo.  The.  Heee.  Air.

Me:  The air needs processing?  What does that even mean?

He continued to hone his breathing technique with a look of chagrin.  And then the wave of nastiness reached my nostrils.  It was as though he had ingested broccoli scraps and watermelon rind that had sat in a closed container in direct sunlight for four days, and then blasted the result directly into my nasal cavity.  Even Simone jumped off his lap in search of some fresh air.

Rocco:  I’m sorry Shaun.


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